


A Cross-House Hogwarts Love Story

by thephibee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, hermione/original character
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28533192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thephibee/pseuds/thephibee
Summary: Laura, an original character, runs into Hermione in her safe space, the library, one day. They fall for each other, but are they meant for each other?





	A Cross-House Hogwarts Love Story

The people in the paintings are my closest friends.  
Sure, I have my roommates. Jessa and Clarence. Sometimes, Minny and I sing little duets together while getting ready for bed. But there is no one to write letters to during Winter Break. There’s no one to talk to in between classes.  
The Ravenclaw common room is comfortable but lonely. I prefer to spend time there alone or not at all. I often find myself in the big, central library.  
The library is beautiful and mysterious. The front hall towers with ceilings 4 stories tall: Curved, protruding beams reach their peak in the tall, arched dome. The air there feels clean and fresh, and it’s there that I feel myself. Surrounded by the calm confidence of knowledge and art, the anxiety sluffs off my body and I breath fully, from the tips of my toes to the deepest crinkle of my crisp cloak.  
I study there sometimes. But more often than not, I find my way back into a deep, dark, secret corner. Here, the ceilings can’t be 6 feet. The wood is old and fuzzy, perfect for the tiny nymph families that nest there and slip surprises in the hair of unsuspecting passers-by.  
It’s the contrast that I love. As if an old married couple designed the library as their dream home and just couldn’t compromise on a style. That and the solitude. I love that, too.  
Which I won’t be getting today, evidently. I puff, out of breath after my climb up the twisting, spiral staircase of the Southern Tower, and stop short. There’s a girl. She sits on the worn purple couch facing the window, framed by the cool blue evening outside. Her hair hangs over her book in golden spirals over soft, brown down, as she reads from a textbook.  
Suddenly she whips over her shoulder to face me, her perfect, pointed nose full of scorn. The color slowly rises to my cheeks as I realize that I haven’t moved an inch from staring at her face. I cough and take a small step to the side, pulling my hair behind my ear.  
“Can I help you?” the girl quips. Her voice is light and sharp, without the slightest quiver. I am jello in comparison.  
“No, no, that’s fine. I just…” I hold up my latest find, “Medieval Muggle Architecture of the Malian Empire,” as my voice dwindles.  
“I see,” she turns back resolutely. My hand drops to my side.  
“Well?” she says. I blank. “Well don’t just stand there” she motions at the empty cushion next to her.  
“Oh, yeah, right.”  
She doesn’t even seem to notice when I ease down next to her. I notice. I notice her eyelashes. They’re long.  
“Interested in Muggles?” she asks.  
“Um, yes, I mean, not really. Sort of.” She frowns.  
“What I mean is,” I force, “that I am interested in Muggles, but I’m not especially interested in Muggles. I’m interested just like… just the same as everything else, I suppose.”  
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s not as if I asked you if you were Dirty Mudblood Scum,” her voice drips with sarcasm.  
“They are interesting,” I venture, “So… fascinating.”  
“They’re just people, you know,” she responds. She looks up suddenly and catches my gaze. There’s a pause. I’m holding my breath.  
She laughs.  
“You’re weird,” she giggles. I laugh too, relieved.  
She scoops up her books and tucks them deftly under the flap of her tan mugskin bag. Is she leaving? I try to think of something to say as she gets up and turns away.  
“That’s rude—,"  
“I like it,” she responds. Another stony look passes between us.  
“What’s your name?” she asks.  
“I’m Laura,” I breath.  
It’s not until the last glimpse of her purple robes slips from my vision down the metal stairs that I realize: I never got her name.  
It’s dark outside. Amber streetlamps over the bridge reflect murky in the deep blue waters below. I switch on a lamp.


End file.
